by burying me alive. You make me do it
myself, board by board in the foyer

while you sit in the kitchen, directing
through the wall. Pull up one. Pull up two.

I pull up until there is a six-by-four
gash in the floor. A soft burgundy

tongue to curl into. How did it form
there so perfectly? So velvety? The crow bar

snickers where nails chip it raw.
We count teeth in the smile of our life's head.

And a mouth opens.
And these words come out.